Sarek

Summary

The novel begins after the events of STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. Spock's mother, Amanda Grayson, is dying and Spock returns to the planet Vulcan where he and Sarek enjoy a rare moment of rapprochement. But just as his wife's illness grows worse, duty calls Sarek away--once again sowing the seeds of conflict between father and son. Yet soon Sarek and Spock must put aside their differences and work together to foil a far-reaching plot to destroy the Federation--a plot that Sarek has seen in the making for nearly his entire career. The epic story will take the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise to the heart of the Klingon Empire where Captain Kirk's last surviving relative has become a pawn in the battle to divide the Federation... and conquer it. With Sarek's help, the crew of the Starship Enterprise learns that all is not as it seems. Before they can prevent the Federation's destruction, they must see the face of their hidden enemy--an enemy more insidious and more dangerous than any they have faced before...

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SAREK

A.C. CRISPIN

Spock sat by his mother’s bedside, holding her small, cold, wasted hand in both his own, as though he could somehow transfer some of his strength to her by so doing.

The room was bathed in sunlight, and the monitoring devices were subdued, non-intrusive. As Spock watched his mother, her lips parted, and she spoke. Barely more than a breath escaped. A breath that was a name.

Sarek …?

She had been calling his father’s name for hours, and the sound of it wrenched Spock’s heart as nothing in his life ever had. I am here, Mother, I am here. Spock … I’m here with you, Mother. She opened her eyes again, stared vacantly at him. Fretfully, she tugged her hand away from his.

Sarek? she murmured, turning her head on the pillow, seeking someone who wasn’t there…

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STAR TREK®

SAREK

A.C. CRISPIN

POCKET BOOKS

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people helped me produce this book. With the caveat that any errors are assuredly my own, I wish to thank:

Mark Lenard, whose evocative portrayal of the character inspired Sarek. Mark is a fine actor who is also a gracious and warm human being. He took a personal interest in this novel from its earliest inception.

For technical information:

Michael Capobianco, fellow author and amateur astronomer, for information on planetary orbits, rings and the like. (Not to mention driving me to the Fed Ex depot, faxing hunks of the manuscript, fixing dinner and providing much-needed shoulder rubs and encouragement during tough times.)

Marc Okrand, for inventing words and phrases in Klingonese when I needed them. Thanks, Marc. Now I know what to say if I ever make love to a Klingon!

For editorial advice and assistance:

Kevin Ryan and John Ordover, the STAR TREK editors at Pocket Books.

And, for just Being There when I needed them:

Vonda, Nancy, Merrilee, Liza, Deb and Teresa.

And last, but foremost, I have to thank my longtime friend and co-author Kathleen O’Malley, who provided valuable editorial insight and criticism … and much, much more. Without Kathy, I doubt this book would have made it into print.

STAR TREK®

SAREK

PROLOGUE

Sunset on Vulcan.

In the west, 40 Eridani A—Nevasa—was setting, staining the magenta sky with swaths of deep amethyst, gold, and coral. But the tall figure silhouetted against the sunset was blind to the glory behind him; Sarek of Vulcan faced east, watching his world’s sister world, T’Rukh, at full phase. The giant planet orbited a mere 149,895.3579 Federation Standard kilometers from her companion world—and filled thirty degrees of sky.

Because the two worlds were tidally locked, Vulcan’s sister planet, T’Rukh, was only visible from this side of Vulcan. Looming perpetually against the high, jagged horizon, the giant world went through a full set of phases each day. Only at sunset did the bloated sphere fully reveal her ravaged visage.

Sarek had chosen this remote location for his mountain villa in part because of its view of T’Rukh. Here at the edge of the civilized world, the ambassador never tired of watching T’Rukh poised atop the Forge, an inhospitable continent-sized plateau seven kilometers higher than the rest of the planet. Few indeed were the individuals who saw the sister world’s whole face on a regular basis; only the ancient retreat and shrine of Gol lay farther east than Sarek’s villa.

The wind, cooling now that Nevasa had set, plucked at Sarek’s light-colored tunic and loose trousers. As he watched T’Rukh intently, his lean, long-fingered hands tightened on the balustrade of the terrace overlooking the eastern gardens. The ambassador was attempting to reach a decision.

Logic versus ethics … Should the needs of the many outweigh the conscience and honor of the one? Could he compromise what he knew to be right, in order to accomplish what was necessary?

Sarek gazed across the Plains of Gol, considering. Long ago, he had studied with several of the Masters there. What would his teachers do if they were in his place?

The ambassador drew a deep breath of the evening air, then let it out slowly as he regarded the surrounding mountains. He had chosen this site for his private retreat decades ago, when he and his second wife had first been married. These remote hills were cooler, even during the daylight hours, and thus easier for humans—in particular, one special human—to endure than the scorching heat of the rest of his world.

Night deepened around Sarek as he watched T’Rukh. Evening on this hemisphere of Vulcan did not bring darkness, though. T’Rukh, the huge world humans called Charis, provided forty times the light of Earth’s full moon. At full phase, T’Rukh was a swollen yellowish half-sphere, a dissipated eye that never blinked, even when spumes and geysers of fire from her volcano-wracked surface penetrated her cloud cover. Sarek noted absently that a new volcano had erupted since yesterday; the large, fire-red dot resembled an inflamed abscess on the planet’s sulfuric countenance.

T’Rukh was only one of The Watcher’s names; her name varied according to the time of the Vulcan year. More than twice as large as Vulcan, T’Rukh boasted a moon of her own in a low, fast-moving orbit. Tonight T’Rukhemai (literally, Eye of The Watcher) was visible as a dark reddish sphere almost in the center of the planet—a pupil in a giant eye. The little worldlet, slightly larger than Earth’s moon, orbited The Watcher so quickly that its motion was almost perceptible to the naked eye. Sarek watched The Watcher, and she stared back at him balefully.

It was his habit to stand here and watch The Watcher whenever he faced a difficult decision. And the one he faced now was proving to be one of the most difficult choices of his career. Logic chains ran through his mind, presenting pros and cons relentlessly, over and over. Should he act? The action he was contemplating went against all the rules of diplomacy and interstellar law. How could he abandon those rules, he who had devoted his life to upholding the tenets of civilized society?

But … if he did not act, did not gain proof of the insidious threat that faced the Federation, millions of innocent lives could well be lost. Perhaps billions.

Sarek’s mouth tightened. Proving his theory would require that he break the law. How could he himself flout what he had helped engineer? And yet … this was definitely a case where the needs of the many must be considered. Could he risk the impending threat of war?

Sarek stared fixedly at The Watcher as he thought. Somewhere in the distance, a lanka-gar called. The ambassador turned his head, catching the wheeling shape of the night flier as it swooped after prey on the slopes below.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sarek noted absently that the garish colors of sunset were muted now. In a few minutes they would be entirely gone, and T’Rukh, though no longer full, would rule the night.

The breeze touched him again, chill against his cheek. By midnight it would be cool even by human standards.

Even though the ambassador’s aquiline features were composed, as usual, his mind would not be still.

The logic chains flowed, slowed—and the equation crystallized in his mind. The decision lay before him. In this case, logic and necessity must outweigh ethical considerations.

Sarek nodded slightly at T’Rukh, bidding the giant planet farewell, knowing that his decision would require that he journey off-world. The Watcher would wax and wane without his presence for many nights. He would leave as soon as possible.

Turning away from the vista before him, the ambassador headed back toward the house, his strides quick and sure. For a moment he envisioned Spock’s reaction if he were to discover what his father was planning, and experienced a flicker of amusement. His son would be surprised, possibly shocked, if he knew that his sire was logically and rationally planning to commit a crime. The ambassador had little doubt that, in his place, Spock would choose the same course. But his son was half-human—he’d long ago learned to dissemble, to equivocate … even to lie. Yes, Spock would condone his decision—which, in a way, made his father’s conscience trouble him even more.

But there was no help for it—his logic was faultless. His course was clear. He would not turn back.

Reaching the villa, a low, sprawling structure with thick, protective walls, Sarek entered. The house was decorated for the most part in typical Vulcan fashion, austere, with only the most essential furnishings, but its very bareness lent a feeling of spacious comfort. In the living room, presence of the villa’s human occupant was reflected in the antique desk with its faded petit-point chair, in the matching coffee table, and in the handwoven hangings that lent soft touches of rose, turquoise, and sea green to the walls. A water sculpture made a faint susurration within the protective field that prevented evaporation of the precious liquid.

Sarek paused in his office and contacted his young aide, Soran, instructing him to make arrangements for them to travel off-world. The Ambassador’s office was devoid of ornamentation, except for the painting of an icy world beneath a swollen red sun.

Next door to his office was the bedroom, and through that lay his wife’s sitting room, with its view of the eastern gardens. Sarek already knew from the bond they shared that Amanda awaited him there. He hesitated for a moment before the carven portal leading into their room.

Knowing that his wife had sensed his presence through their bond, Sarek opened the door and passed through the bedroom to the sitting room. Amanda occupied her favorite chair as she sat gazing out at The Watcher and the rocky spires of her garden.

The light from Vulcan’s sister world shone on her face, revealing new lines that had not been there a month ago. Her bones seemed more prominent, the lines of cheekbones and nose showing through flesh. He studied her for a moment, noting that Amanda’s flowing garment now clearly outlined the angles of her shoulders and collarbone; she had never been a large woman, but during the past month she had clearly lost weight from her already small frame.

Sarek, she greeted her husband, her mental and audible voice filled with warmth and welcome as she held out her hand to him.

Greetings, my wife, the ambassador said, permitting himself the small smile that he reserved for her alone. Extending two fingers, he ceremoniously touched them to hers. The gesture, so simple on a physical level, was, between a bonded couple, capable of nearly infinite shades of meaning—at times merely a casual acknowledgment, the mental equivalent of a peck on the cheek, at times nearly as passionate as anything experienced in the throes of pon farr. Sarek’s touch conveyed a depth of feeling that the ambassador had never voiced, for speaking of such things in words, aloud, was not the Vulcan way.

Is it cool out tonight? Amanda asked, gazing out at her garden. She had planted it shortly after Spock’s birth, using unusually shaped and colored stones to complement the native Vulcan cactuslike trees, as well as desert plants from a dozen Federation worlds.

The temperature is normal for the season and time of day, Sarek replied.

I thought of joining you on the terrace, Amanda said, glancing out at the garden, but I must have fallen asleep. I only awoke when I felt your presence next door.

Sarek sat down next to her, his gaze traveling over her features, noting with disquiet how drawn and pale she appeared. And she tired so easily these days …

Concerned, the Vulcan raised the light level in the room, then studied his wife’s face intently. Even without The Watcher’s eerie illumination, Amanda appeared drawn and pale. No trace of pink remained in her cheeks, once so rounded and healthy.

As she grew aware of his fixed regard, her blue eyes, once so direct, refused to meet his own. She busied herself capping her old-fashioned pen, then closing her journal and placing it back in the drawer of her desk.

Sarek leaned closer to her, his eyes never leaving her countenance. Amanda, he said quietly, I noted the other day that you appear to have lost weight … have you been feeling unwell, my wife?

The thin shoulders lifted in a small shrug. I expect I may have picked up a cold, Sarek. Please don’t worry about me. I will be fine.

The ambassador shook his head. I want you to contact T’Mal, and arrange for her to conduct a thorough evaluation of your physical condition.

Amanda glanced at him; then her eyes shifted quickly away. All I need is a few days’ rest, Sarek. There is no need to visit my physician.

Please allow the Healer to make such a judgment, Sarek said. Promise me that you will arrange to see her as soon as possible, Amanda.

She took a deep breath, and Sarek sensed through their bond that she was struggling to keep some strong emotion from him. I have a great deal to accomplish this week, she demurred. My editor wants to move up the publication date for the new book. She told me today that there is a tremendous amount of interest in having the writings of Surak’s followers translated.

Indeed?

Yes, Amanda said, clearly warming to her subject, and when I told her about—

Amanda, Sarek interrupted, raising one hand, you are changing the subject deliberately. Do not think that I did not notice.

His wife opened her mouth to protest, then closed it abruptly and stared fixedly at her hands. Sarek’s concern sharpened. Amanda seemed to have aged a decade in a matter of a few weeks.

I regret that I must leave you, tomorrow morning, Sarek said. I must go to Earth to consult with the Vulcan consulate and arrange to meet with the Federation president. It will aid me in concentrating on my work if I know that T’Mal will be monitoring your health while I must be away.

You have to leave? Amanda repeated, and something darkened her eyes. Sarek tried to catch her emotion, but she had been studying Vulcan mental disciplines as well as the Vulcan language for decades, and he was unsuccessful. How … how long will you be gone?

A week, possibly two, the ambassador said. If I could postpone this, I would, given your apparent ill health, but I cannot. The situation on Earth regarding the KEHL has worsened considerably in the past weeks.

I know, Amanda admitted. It makes me ashamed of my whole planet—the Keep Earth Human League used to be just a haven for ineffectual crackpots and ignorant fools. But today’s news said there had been demonstrations in Paris in front of the Vulcan consulate! It makes me furious! For a moment her eyes flashed sapphire with indignation, and she almost appeared her old self. Those idiots are trying to convince the entire planet that Vulcan is responsible for every disaster from the Probe’s devastation to the Klingon raids along the Neutral Zone!

The KEHL does appear to be set on fomenting discord between my people and yours, Sarek said. I have not heard any reports of incidents at the Andorian or Tellarite consulates.

Do you believe that the KEHL’s sudden renaissance is due to Valeris’s involvement with that secret cabal? Amanda asked.

The Terran news agencies certainly highlighted the Vulcan, Klingon, and Romulan conspirators far more than they did the activities of Admiral Cartwright or Colonel West when Chancellor Gorkon was assassinated and the Khitomer Conference disrupted, Sarek conceded. Which, under the circumstances, is unfortunate, but not surprising.

His wife gazed at him intently. Sarek … does this resurgence of the Keep Earth Human League have any connection with your current project?

Sarek sat back in his seat and glanced out the window at T’Rukh, its upper limb now shadowed. The ambassador was silent for nearly a minute before he spoke. I have reached a number of conclusions of late, Amanda, he said. I have a number of suspicions. However, I have no evidence to support my theory that is not statistical, circumstantial, or purely inferential. I need concrete proof before I can bring my findings before the Federation officials and the president.

And that’s why you are going to Earth? To get some kind of proof?

Yes. After a moment, the ambassador amended, If possible.

I see. Amanda’s mouth tightened, but she did not pursue her line of questioning—which, almost more than the physical changes he had noted, alarmed the ambassador. If his wife had been feeling like herself, she would never have given up so easily. She would have kept after him until she’d satisfied her curiosity. But now she leaned her head back against her chair, gazing out at The Watcher in silence, her eyes half-closed with weariness.

Sarek’s breath caught in his throat as he regarded her, and he identified the feeling that had been growing within him ever since he had entered the room.

Fear.

Amanda, he said, keeping his voice from betraying any shade of emotion, I insist that you call the Healer and arrange to see her. If you will not promise, I will postpone my trip a day and do so myself.

She gazed at him, and he sensed deep emotion through their bond. Sorrow—but not for herself. Amanda’s grief was for him. Very well, Sarek, she agreed, at long last. You have my word that I will make an appointment this week.

You will call tomorrow?

Yes.

The ambassador drew a deep breath, somewhat relieved, but still disquieted. Perhaps I should call someone to stay with you while I am gone, he said. One of your friends, perhaps … Swiftly, he reviewed options, and realized that most of his wife’s human contemporaries had died within the past several years. Another possibility is our son. Perhaps he could take leave, return home for a visit if I contacted—

No! Amanda’s voice was sharp and final. "I don’t want you worrying our son. There have been Klingon renegades raiding all along the Neutral Zone, and I’m sure the Enterprise is one of the ships patrolling out there."

If Spock knew that you were feeling unwell—

Absolutely not, she said, in a quieter but even more positive tone. I expect you to respect my wishes in this, my husband, she added, sternly.

Sarek hesitated. Amanda fixed him with a look. My promise for yours, Sarek. Do we have a bargain?

The ambassador nodded. "Very well, Amanda. You will contact the Healer, and I will not contact our son."

She nodded at him, her blue eyes softening until they were the color of her homeworld’s skies. I wish you a safe journey, Sarek, she said, and then added, with a faint, tender smile, Whatever you’re planning … be careful. Never forget that I love you … illogically and madly. Remember that … always.

The Vulcan gazed back at her, his eyes never leaving hers. Slowly, formally, he held out two fingers. I will be careful, my wife.

In response to his gesture, his wife’s fingers brushed, then settled against his own. The warmth of their bond enfolded them, eliminating the need for spoken words.

ONE

Sarek of Vulcan stood at the window of the Vulcan consulate in San Francisco, gazing out with growing disquiet. Today’s demonstration by the Keep Earth Human League had begun with only a few picketers, some carrying homemade placards, others more sophisticated holosigns, but, even in the short time he’d been standing there, the crowd had grown rapidly.

Now a full score of shouting humans milled before the gateway. Sarek’s Vulcan hearing could easily make out what they were chanting: KEEP EARTH HU-MAN! KEEP EARTH HU-MAN! interspersed with occasional, strident shouts of VULCANS GO HOME!

Illogical, murmured a voice from beside him, and the Vulcan ambassador glanced sideways to see his young aide, Soran, standing beside him, his dark eyes troubled. Last year, the Keep Earth Human League was considered a refuge for weak-minded racists. I examined the records … there were no more than forty or fifty members on this entire planet. But now, Federation Security estimates their numbers to be in the thousands. Why this sudden growth, Ambassador?

Sarek hesitated, on the verge of giving a vague answer, but instead shook his head slightly, warningly.

Ambassador Sarek?

The two Vulcans turned as one of the young diplomatic attachés, Surev, approached. A few minutes ago, the young Vulcan had asked the ambassador if he could spare a moment to be introduced to a human friend of his, and Sarek had graciously agreed. Now, however, Surev’s unlined features were even more somber than usual. Ambassador, I believe we must cancel the meeting I mentioned.

Why?

I just received a communiqué from the Federation Security Office, he announced. The security chief, Watkins, asks that we stay inside the building until they can dispatch sufficient officers to control the crowd. It is not safe to go outside, and they say that under no circumstances should you agree to meet with the KEHL leader, Ambassador.

Sarek raised an inquiring eyebrow. Has such a meeting been requested by the leadership?

Soran cleared his throat slightly. As a matter of fact, it has, sir, he said. A message arrived a few minutes ago from the demonstrators.

Why was I not informed? the ambassador demanded, turning to face Soran. His aide was obviously taken aback by the question.

Ambassador, I never considered that you might wish to accede to their demand for a meeting—that would be most unwise. Possibly dangerous. Soran sounded faintly aggrieved, and Sarek could not blame him. But his aide, as yet, knew nothing of the ambassador’s hidden agenda. He would have to take Soran into his confidence today, Sarek decided. He would need help when he made his next trip. And the youth was good with computers—almost as talented as his own son. Those skills would prove useful.

Who requested the meeting? Sarek asked.

The planetary leader of the KEHL, Surev said. His name—or, at least, the name he goes by in the organization—is Induna. He is from the African nation of Kenya.

Sarek looked out the window again. Surev pointed to a human who stood nearly a head above the others. That is Induna, he said.

The Vulcan ambassador studied the imposing figure of a dark-skinned human, who wore a silk robe brilliantly patterned in black and red. I will speak to him, he said, reaching a sudden decision. He needed more information about the KEHL, and firsthand observation would not be amiss.

Ambassador—you must not! It is not safe, sir! Soran half-barred the doorway, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of what must seem extremely anomalous behavior on the part of the senior diplomat.

Sarek merely looked at him for a long second. Soran hesitated, then stepped silently out of the way. Surev half-bowed. May I at least accompany you as far as the gates, sir?

Sarek nodded graciously. Certainly, Surev.

Leaving the domed building and walking down the ramp, Sarek heard the crowd as it caught sight of him, flanked by Surev and Soran. Insults were hurled at the Vulcans, many of them personally directed toward the ambassador himself. The sight of Federation security officers around the fringes of the crowd was reassuring.

The Vulcan approached the demonstrators, seeing that someone had closed the gates to the consulate, which had always stood open before this. Shouts and epithets filled the air:

They want to take over Earth! Spawn of the devil!

Dirty aliens, think they’re so smart!

Go back to Vulcan!

Vulcans go home!

Approaching the gateway, Sarek raised his voice to be heard. I am Ambassador Sarek, he called out. I understand that Induna wishes to speak with me. Which of you is Induna?

In response, the crowd (which now numbered forty or fifty people) parted, and the KEHL leader stepped forth. I am Induna, he announced. His voice was a deep, bass rumble.

Greetings, Induna, Sarek said, raising his hand in the Vulcan salute. I wish you peace and long life.

I accept no good wishes from Earth’s enemy, Induna said coldly.

I assure you that I wish only good relations between our worlds, Sarek said. I invite you to enter the gates, so we may speak together.

The man drew himself up, clearly antagonistic. I have nothing to say to you, Ambassador, that cannot be said within hearing of those who follow me. And I refuse to speak with a being so cowardly that he hides behind gates.

I am not hiding, nor do I have anything to hide, Sarek corrected him, his tones civil but firm. The ambassador heard shouts from the crowd, but Induna appeared to be able to control his followers. Very well, then, I will come to you, so we may speak together like civilized beings. Before either of his companions could remonstrate with him, Sarek reached out and opened the gate. Head high, still flanked by the young diplomats, he strode forward into the crowd, straight for Induna.

The moment he stepped into their midst, brushing against the demonstrators, Sarek was nearly sickened by the miasma of hatred that he sensed from the humans in the crowd. His planet and this world had been allies and friends for over a century. How could such a thing be happening now?

The KEHL leader was clearly taken aback as the ambassador approached him, but recovered his aplomb quickly. Turning to the crowd, he motioned for quiet—but instead the shouting intensified.

Vulcans go home?

Sarek sold out Earth to the Klingons!

Induna gestured again, more peremptorily. Let me speak to this Vulcan, my friends and comrades, he ordered. If I can make him see that he and his kind have no place on our world, then he will leave Earth! We do not want war, we want peace—they can keep to their planet, as we shall keep to ours!

The protesters closest to their leader obeyed, but others, farther back in the crowd, continued to hurl abuse.

Go back to Vulcan!

Vulcans go home! Vulcans go home!

The crowd surged wildly, and then someone threw a clod of dirt. Other refuse followed. Sarek smelled rotting vegetables.

Stop! Induna shouted, and the missiles halted—but the crowd was clearly getting out of control. Quiet down! the leader commanded. The noise abated slightly.

We have no designs on your world, Sarek cried, raising his voice to be heard above the demonstrators. Our species have been allies for decades. We—

But the leader’s words were lost as the crowd surged forward. Missiles filled the air. An egg spattered against Soran’s robe. Filthy aliens! screamed an old woman.

The missiles grew harder, more dangerous. A rock struck Sarek on the arm with force enough to bruise. He flinched back, realized that Induna was still yelling for the crowd to quiet down, and knew the KEHL leader had lost all control of the mob—for mob it now was.

Federation security officers moved in with crowd-control stunners and forcefields. Sarek was shoved, hit hard on the back; he turned and grappled momentarily with his attacker. With a quick thrust, he shoved the woman aside.

As the mob surged, shrieking and yelling, the Vulcan and Induna were thrust almost into each other’s arms. Sarek struggled to free himself, felt the KEHL leader flail at him, whether out of fear or anger, he couldn’t tell. It no longer mattered. Sarek’s hand came up, searching for the correct location at the juncture of the human’s neck and shoulder. Steely-hard fingers grasped, then squeezed—Induna sagged forward bonelessly.

But Sarek did not release his grip on the leader’s shoulder. He fell to his knees, half-supporting the big human, his breath catching in his throat. He, like most Vulcans, was a touch-telepath, and the moment his fingers closed on Induna’s flesh, Sarek had received flashes of the human’s mental state—

—flashes that literally staggered him.

Induna was not acting entirely of his own volition, Sarek realized, stunned by his discovery. The KEHL leader was under the influence of a trained telepathic presence. Using expert mental techniques, the unknown telepath had inflamed this man’s tiny core of xenophobia into a raging firestorm of hatred and bigotry.

On his own, Induna would never have been more than mildly distrustful of Vulcans and other extraterrestrials. Someone had exploited his incipient xenophobia, someone expert enough to enter his thoughts and influence them so gradually, so patiently, that the subject came to believe that everything in his mind had originated there.

Someone had molded and influenced and delicately reshaped this human’s innermost desires and fears into all-out species bigotry—

—and that someone was Vulcan.

Sarek could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. Such mental influence was contrary to every ethical and moral tenet his people had developed over millennia of civilized existence.

But he could not have been mistaken about the mental signature the telepath had left on Induna’s mind. Sarek came back to the here-and-now, blinking, and realized that he was crouched in the center of a fighting, trampling mob. Induna still sagged against him. The ambassador struggled back to his feet, heaving the KEHL leader up with him, lest his unconscious body be crushed in the frenzy.

Even as he gained his feet, he was nearly knocked down again by the panicked rush of retreating demonstrators. Federation Security was routing the mob, stunning many and taking them into custody. Others were running away at full speed. In only seconds, it seemed, he was left alone, still supporting the KEHL leader’s unconscious form. Soran and Surev were still on their feet, nearby. Both young Vulcans had obviously been in the thick of the fray—their robes and hair were disheveled, and Soran was bleeding from a cut over his eye.

We’re terribly sorry about this, Ambassador Sarek! exclaimed the head of the Federation security force, as he was hastening toward the Vulcans. But we warned the consulate against having any contact with the demonstrators!

Your warning was received, Sarek said. I chose to attempt to speak with the protesters personally. The decision was mine alone. I take full responsibility.

The human glanced sharply at the unconscious KEHL leader. Is that Induna?

Sarek nodded.

We’ll take him into custody, Ambassador, the officer said, reaching for the leader’s limp figure. Sarek surrendered him to the authorities.

I wish to state for the record, the ambassador said, that this man did not order the mob to attack us. In fact, he ordered them to desist, but they did not obey.

Okay, Ambassador, the officer said, beckoning to a subordinate with a stretcher, I’ll be sure to put that in my report.

Sarek stood for a second longer, watching as Induna was placed in one of the emergency vehicles. Then he turned back to the two young Vulcans. Let us go back inside, he said.

Safe once more behind the closed and electronically locked gates, Sarek dismissed young Surev to his duties, then turned to Soran. As the humans would say, ‘One more piece has been added to the puzzle.’

The young Vulcan raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Indeed, Ambassador? To what puzzle are you referring?

The puzzle that has occupied me for over a year now, Sarek said. There is a great deal to tell you, Soran. Let us walk in the garden, and talk. The weather is pleasant, today.

The young Vulcan seemed surprised. You do not wish to go inside, Ambassador?

Sarek shook his head. I will be able to speak more… freely … in the garden, near the water sculpture, he said.

The youth stared at him for a moment; then his eyes widened fractionally. You suspect listening devices, sir?

Under the circumstances, the ambassador said, gravely, I would prefer to take no chances that what I am about to impart to you will be overheard.

Together, they walked around the curving path that circled the consulate, and were soon in a stone garden modeled on those on Vulcan. Sarek was reminded vividly of Amanda’s garden, and wondered, briefly, what her visit to the Healer might have revealed. What do you know of the Freelans, Soran? Sarek asked.

The youth cleared his throat slightly. Freelan … an isolated world located in the middle of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Perhaps surprisingly, the Romulans have never laid claim to the planet, possibly because it is so inhospitable and remote. Freelan exists in the grip of an extensive ice age, with only the equatorial regions supporting life and agriculture. The technological level of the inhabitants is high, especially in the cryogenic sciences and related products, but Freelan is resource-poor.

Correct, Sarek said. For someone who has only been my aide for forty-seven point six Standard days, you are well informed, Soran.

You have been the diplomatic liaison between Freelan and the Federation for seventy-two point seven Standard years, Ambassador. It is my responsibility to be familiar with all your duties, the aide responded. Sarek nodded approvingly.

Freelan, Sarek said quietly, is, as you probably also know, something of an enigma.

Sarek was deliberately understating the situation. Freelan was unique in the explored galaxy. The Freelans did not possess space travel of their own, but their contacts with the Federation had, for decades, led to their world being included as a regular stop on local trade routes. The planet had never affiliated itself with any political or diplomatic alliance. Freelan was not a member of the Federation, though it did send delegates to many trade, scientific, and diplomatic conferences. Its delegates, however, remained scrupulously neutral in all their dealings and contacts with other planets.

Cultural exchanges between Freelan and other worlds were virtually nonexistent, due to the Freelan taboo—religious or cultural, no one knew which—that prohibited Freelans from revealing their faces or bodies. When the natives had any contact with anyone not of their world, they shrouded themselves in concealing garments. Their muffling cloaks, hoods, and masks were made from material impregnated with selonite, which prevented them from being scanned by tricorders or medical sensors.

Those wishing to meet with a Freelan on business or diplomatic matters had to travel to the mysterious world, where the Freelans maintained a space station to accommodate guests.